Poetry

it was a glance
then was a spark
then was a feeling
that cannot be described
it's a peace in the heart
and a tear in the eye
of a joy and a pain
it flowed in the silence
reminded all what has been

The sun kissed the California coast and slipped beyond the horizon. For a moment, I wondered how something so fleeting could leave so much light behind.

Perhaps that is our work here, too.

May Allah forgive my shortcomings and accept my prayers. 🤲🏾

A soul with wings, a heart without chains

• -Neda -

By the stars which guided my path, by the ocean which fuelled my death, by the moon which calmed my wrath.

What wisdom lays behind your lies? what meaning carries your grace? what love does your face praise? Lies over lies over the kindled blaze. That which fuels what you chase to a place of demise. Only for you to drag me to the same abyss out of haze.

But no, let my wrath shine out of the maze which you so kindly chased me into as my price. This shall be the last peace out of my ease for this lives haze.

“By the stars that guide the night, by the moon and its stolen light, by the wind and its might.

May it all become withered ashes out of sight, till the day which shall reap its rights, till the day which shall reap its fright.

No soul shall pass through without its blight, no matter what it sought of rights. As this world is but a fight. One which will guide every soul to its height. And every soul to its fright.”

This might be my best one yet tbf. It’s rare that I get such “inspiration”? To write such.

Question:
Your writings about women are tangled: sometimes she seems a goddess, sometimes a secret, sometimes a danger. What, in the end, do you understand a woman to be?

Answer: A woman is not a riddle made to be solved. The one who sees her as a riddle is a prisoner of his own gaze. He takes everything for a lock and goes about searching for the key, though some doors were open all along. It is only that the onlooker stands with his fist clenched, and one who stands with a clenched fist takes even an open door to be shut. The tangle is not in the door; it is in the grip of the hand.
You want to confine woman in two boxes: either sanctity or mere body. Both boxes are false, because both make her a "thing," and a thing can be kept, sold, broken. But she is not a thing. She is a whole being, carrying light and shadow together, just like the night that holds both the moon and the darkness, neither one denying the other.
The man who cannot understand woman is really looking at the tangle within himself, outside himself. The mirror is never the criminal; it is the one standing before the mirror who is frightened of his own face. He wants the mirror to lie, and when the mirror shows the truth, he blames the mirror, not himself.
And listen, Waris said:
"Faqir, sword, and horse, and spit: these four are no one's friend."
These four are impartial; they cannot be anyone's friend. A woman who is truly a woman is no one's "yaar." She is driven only by love: not by desire, not by intention, not by greed. She can be a wife, a companion, a beloved, but not a yaar, because in yaari there is bargaining, there is accounting, there is a scale of give and take, and love is free of scales. Love does not weigh; it simply flows.
The sword is impartial: whatever head you place beneath it, it cuts, whether the head is your own or another's. The horse is impartial: whoever holds the reins, it takes his pace, toward good as well as evil. Friends belong to the maulvi, to the scholar, to the courtesan, and to the clowns too, because all of them know the language of the bargain. The faqir has no friend. The faqir is like fire: impartial, burning everything, his own and others', and the one who burns is the one who also rises from the ashes.
Respect is the gaze that asks for equality: it neither places one high and so burdens her, nor places one low and so erases her. Pity and lust are in truth two faces of the same coin: in both, the other is deemed "lesser," except that one crushes gently and the other by force. Respect does not do this; respect stands a person upright, level, looking eye to eye.
The day you give up the stubborn urge to "understand" woman and learn merely to "see" her, without any demand, without wanting her to bear you some fruit, give you some answer, grant you some peace, on that day this tangle will clear by itself. The tangle was never in woman. It was always in the gaze that was bent on understanding her, bent on winning, bent on becoming her master. Let go of this obstinacy, and look. Just look.

ASIECE YOUSAF

I m searching introvert person for marriage

I m new in this group.

they're called week days cus they weaken you, that's why they're weak days

that's why you get to the weekend cus you're weakend by the week days

I came across this book in a small cafe in Michigan 🥲